


But, Honestly

by wehangout



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, discussion of Ian's 5.01 infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You smoke your smoke, wishing you had some weed, but the only drugs you keep in the house these days are Ian’s. You’re okay with that - it’s basically what your life is these day. Ian. Ian is your fucking life, and you don’t give a fuck how co-dependent that shit sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But, Honestly

**Author's Note:**

> The usual many thanks to [Dee](http://im-not-his-keeper.tumblr.com/).
> 
> This was a prompt from the delightful [milkovicked](http://milkovicked.tumblr.com/). It's not exactly what she prompted, but hopefully she still likes it!
> 
> Title comes from the Foo Fighters song of the same name.

Ian doesn’t look angry at your words. He should - he should look fucking furious, because you’re being so fucking unfair and mean and spiteful that you can’t even believe it.

But he doesn’t look angry. He just looks hurt, guilty, sad. He looks fucking awful. He nods, one, two, three times, then walks past you to grab his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Even now, now that you’ve hurt him like you kind of maybe wanted to, you can’t help but snap at him.

“Out.”

“Fuck, Ian. Out where?”

He turns to look at you just as he reaches the door. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it fucking matters!”

“Why? Because I might be out fucking around with other guys?”

He leaves without waiting for an answer, and it occurs to you pretty fucking quickly that you should go after him, that you shouldn’t just let him leave, not after everything, not after last time, but … but you can’t bring yourself to stop him. It’s your first fight since he got our of the hospital, and it’s been brewing for days, the two of you tip-toeing around each other, being overly polite, way too cautious.

Until tonight. Until you just couldn’t take it anymore and decided against coming home at a decent hour, decided to stick around at the Alibi until last call, when you realised how fucking dumb you were being. You walked home, looking forward to taking your clothes off and climbing into bed with Ian, because being distant or not, bed was always a safe haven.

Bed is where you sleep, where you fuck, where you fucking _cuddle._ Yeah, cuddle. You let Ian cuddle you, and you cuddled him right back, and you’re really fucking okay with that. Bed is the one place everything seems okay, even when Ian wasn’t getting out of it. As long as the two of you can lie in bed together, bodies touching, sharing heat, then everything will okay.

Ian’s not in bed when you get home. He paces in front of the couch, waiting, wringing his hands together in front of him. He spins to face you when you walk in.

“Mick! Where were you?”

“The Alibi. Why? What’s wrong?”

His body sags with relief. “Nothing, nothing, just … you’re usually home by now.”

“Yeah, well, tonight I wasn’t.”

“No kidding. I was beginning to worry -”

You scoff. “Relax. Not like I was out fucking other guys.”

Everything goes still at the words that are out of your mouth before you even realise you wanted to say them, that you were still so hung up about it, that you were angry enough to let them out. You realise what you’re saying, and your gaze snaps up to meet Ian’s. And he doesn’t look angry.

The doors slams shut behind him.

You pick a beer can up from the table and throw it across the room, right in the direction he just left. He should have been angry, he should have been fucking livid. He’s been working so hard these last two months - taking his meds, going to sessions with his doctor, keeping up a decent routine of work and exercise and relaxing. He’s doing his best to make amends with the people he hurt, the people he worried.

His family’s forgiven him, Svetlana is letting him have daily supervised visits with Yevgeny, and you’re so fucking proud of how far he’s come that it’s hard for you to look at him without smiling like a fucking idiot. He’s trying, so fucking hard, to make things right again.

And, according to him, that means honesty. It means telling you about the guys he fooled around with while manic. The guys who _meant nothing, Mickey, I swear_ , but were still touched by him and still got to touch him.

It made you sick. Literally. You and Ian talked it out like mature couples dealing with mental illnesses do, then Ian went to work with Fiona. And you puked your fucking guts out, sick to your stomach at the thought of Ian being out there, touching other guys, then coming home to you. But you put it behind you, because you had to. Ian was sick. He was sick and he made a mistake - one he was trying to make up for.

And that was that. Two weeks ago. You’ve never mentioned it since, but you know - and you think Ian probably knows, too - it’s why you’ve been all polite smiles and friendly back claps these last few days.

That same sick feeling you got when he told you about it boils up inside of you, but this time you don’t know who you’re angry at - Ian or yourself. Ian for doing the fucking around, or you for throwing it in his face.

You mutter a curse skyward, grab your jacket, and go. Ian fucked up when he was manic, multiple times, but he was manic. It’s not an excuse, but it’s definitely the motivation behind it. You on the other hand, you don’t have a single fucking reason for being such an asshole.

It’s cold outside, snow falling steadily to the ground, and unlike your walk home from the Alibi, this time you don’t have the thought of snuggling into Ian’s warm body to keep you going. Instead you have rampant images of Ian hurting himself somewhere, of Ian hurting someone else somewhere, of Ian taking off for good this time.

You pick up speed. You figure you’ll try the Gallagher’s last, because if he’s there then at least he’s safe. If he’s not there … well, there’s no reason to worry them yet, no reason to tell them how you fucked up, no reason to tell them what Ian did to you and your relationship when he was sick.

Hot tears burn against the cold, and you quickly blink them back, not sure why they even appeared in the first place. Sure, you’re worried as hell about Ian, but this isn’t like last time. Ian’s doing better. He just needs to let off some steam.

You remind yourself of these things as you walk, go over the words his doctor told you and Fiona, the advice she gave on dealing with a mentally ill loved one.

You scowl at her wording. Mentally ill or not, Ian’s Ian. That’s all. He’s not Ian who’s bipolar. He’s not Ian with a mental illness. He’s not Ian who stole a baby. He’s _Ian._ He’s still your Ian; the same Ian who pretty much dared you to kiss him by calling you a coward, the same Ian who got you a job so you didn’t break probation, the same Ian who made you feel safe to be who you fucking are.

The same Ian who makes your days better by simply existing.

You stop and rub at your eyes.

He makes your days better by simply existing.

_Fuck_.

You’re angry. You’re so fucking angry and hurt that he would do that to you, that he would be with someone else like that after everything you did for him. The words you grunted to the guy at _The Fairy Tale_ come back to you, the words meant for Ian, but directed at some poor fuck who got on the wrong end of your boot.

You came out for him.

And he cheated on you.

It’s not the biggest issue in your life - doesn’t even come close to Ian’s wellbeing - but you can’t deny that it’s there, that you’re not okay with it, that you haven’t forgiven him.

Your feet, clearly leading the way this entire time, leave the hard concrete and head onto the icy grass. You shove your hands deep in your pockets and pull out your smokes. Whatever conversation you’re about to have, you fucking need something - something to keep your hands busy, something to burn through your body, something to stare at when it all gets too hard.

Your mind is in two places - one half full of this heart breaking, earth shattering pain that you can’t fucking breathe through; the other fuelled with rage and embarrassment and _how fucking could you, Ian?_

He’s sitting on the bench when you get there, legs jiggling and palms running up and down his denim-clad thighs. You sit next to him, light up your smoke, and offer it to him. You pull out another when he takes it, and stare out at the dark baseball field. You sniff.

“You take your meds tonight?”

“Yeah.”

Just nerves then.

You smoke your smoke, wishing you had some weed, but the only drugs you keep in the house these days are Ian’s. You’re okay with that - it’s basically what your life is these day. Ian. Ian is your fucking life, and you don’t give a fuck how co-dependent that shit sounds.

“You didn’t call,” he says quietly. You look down and see his phone on the bench between you.

“Yeah, I … I guess I just knew to come here.”

“I wasn’t sure you would. Come after me, I mean.”

“C’mon, man -”

“I listened to your messages.”

You frown up at him. “What messages?”

“The ones you left when I … well, when I went AWOL.”

“Okay.”

He finally meets your gaze. “I hadn’t listened to them before. Didn’t have it in me, I guess.”

“That’s okay. I mean, why would you wanna relive that, right?”

He continues to stare at you, that same stare he used to give when you denied, denied, denied. You knew what it meant then. You’re not so sure now.

He sniffs. “It said you love me. _You_ said you love me.”

Oh. That. It’s not like you had forgotten you’d said it, you just kind of … brushed it off. Ian never brought it up, so you figured he’d never had the chance to listen to it and that was it. You were right, clearly, but now he’d had the chance to listen, and …

You look away, letting out a long breath. “Well. Yeah.”

“Really?”

The sound of utter shock in Ian’s voice startles you. You stare at him, painfully wondering just how broken your relationship with him is.

“Ian -”

“It’s just … man, I’ve done some fucked up shit these last six months.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh that hurts your fucking soul. He takes a long drag of his smoke before continuing, smoke trailing out of his mouth as he speaks. “And, sure, some of it brought us closer together, but …”

“But?”

“What - what I told you the other week, what we fought about before -”

“Gallagher, stop. It’s done.”

It’s not done. You know it, he knows it. That’s why you’re out here, somewhere close to 2am, in the middle of fucking winter.

“This isn’t … _we_ aren’t going to work if you can’t be honest with me, Mick, if you can’t … if you can’t forgive me.” And his voice is so sad, so broken, that you turn to grasp his hand.

“I have forgiven you, okay? It’s fine. We’re fine.”

You stare at his hand in yours. This was it. This was the sole reason things weren’t going okay, because Ian - Ian, who was trying so fucking hard - was being honest and open and talking things out, and you were lying. Every time Ian did or said something over the last six months that wasn’t okay, you just … told him it was. That you would work through it. That you forgave him.

Ian’s silent for a long moment, and when you chance a look a him, he’s smiling softly, sadly. “You used to be so good at lying to me.”

You huff out a laugh and wonder which time you claimed he meant nothing to you that he’s talking about.

“You don’t have to lie to me about this, Mick. I’m not gonna break because of it.”

You stare at him, letting his explanation for your attempt at utter forgiveness lately wash over you. He knows you better than you know yourself sometimes, so you try and do things his way and be honest.

“Okay. You’re right. I haven’t forgiven you.”

He nods and looks away, lip trembling. You want to stop. You want to shove those words back in your mouth, swallow them down, and never let them back out. You want to assure Ian that everything is okay, that everything will stay okay, that you and him are okay!

But you can’t. Because it’s not honest. But you do hold on to his hand even tighter.

“I fucking came out for you, Ian.” Your voice cracks, and he takes a deep breath, turns to face you. “I came out for you and you fucking cheated on me.”

“Yeah. I did.”

There’s a fist squeezing at your heart. You’re not sure if it’s his or yours. You continue.

“And it … it fucking _sucks.”_ You blink back traitorous tears.

“I know. And I’m sorry, Mick. I’m so _fucking_ sorry.”

“Yeah, man, I know you are.” Your fingers twitch and long to pull away, to convince your entire body to just fucking run, but you’re done running from Ian, so you keep going, holding on tighter. “But I don’t forgive you. I just don’t.”

He tries to pull away, but you don’t let him and it makes him agitated.

“Mick, let go.”

“No.”

“Mickey -”

You let go, only to reach up and cradle his face with your frosty hands. “Ian, stop. Just because I don’t forgive you doesn’t mean I won’t, okay? Because I will, I promise you, I will. I just need some time.”

“Time?”

“Yeah?”

His eyes are so wide, so blue, so vulnerable. “Away from me?”

“Time, Ian. Not space.”

He nods, and raises both hands to circle your wrists. “I really fucked up, huh?”

“You were sick.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

He stares at you for a long time before responding. “What can I do? What can I do to make this better?”

The answer comes to you immediately, and it’s so fucking simple. Sure, nothing can really fix what Ian did, but he can make it better. You brush your thumbs under his damp eyes, push his hair away from his forehead.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing. Just keep trying.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://www.wehangout.tumblr.com)


End file.
